


Crumble and Burn

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fire, Gen, John Whump, Loss, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-02-15 05:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2218047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock pushed his way through the throng, the crackling, popping sound of fire snapping in his ears. The crackling, popping sound of <i>their flat burning.</i></p><p><i></i>Not his flat. Not his things. He was <i>not </i>letting the place burn down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a RP between the lovely ScribeOfRED and I, but, due to time constraints, we no longer have the time to sit and work on it together. So, with her permission, I'm working what we wrote together into a story and picking it up from there!
> 
> Cross-posted with FF.net.
> 
> Timeline: Set post-S3, post Mary/daughter death. John's moved back into Baker Street.

Sirens in London weren't a rare occurrence.

Sherlock glanced disinterestedly towards the window when he heard the sirens. His mind was fine-tuned, hypersensitive, to pick up on any of those sounds: fire, ambulance, police, so on. He could tell them all apart, and those sirens were... he paused mentally for a moment, filtering through the catalogue of noises in his mind... fire. Boring.

He looked away from the window and to John. He was paying for their prize for a case well done at the moment: a Chinese takeaway. Sherlock wasn't exactly sure why Chinese takeaway was considered a prize for a case well done - surely his skills deserved something better than takeaway - but he wasn't a gourmand and he wasn't complaining. Right now, he was just hungry.

"Did they put my sweet rolls in there?" he asked as John joined them, hooking his fingers into the plastic takeaway bag. One memorable time that they had had takeaway, the idiot had taken the order wrong and left out half of his meal. It wasn't like it had been this restaurant in particular, but it did lack certain amusement when he got home with dinner to find half of his order wrong, and nothing else in the fridge expect pickling eyeballs.

"Yes," John retorted, jerking the bag free of Sherlock's fingers. "I already checked. I _always_ check now, the fit you threw when they messed it up _once_. I'm surprised you didn't talk Mycroft into descending on their business and putting them out or something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wasn't _that_ upset. I just was hungry."

"Heaven forbid someone gets it wrong when Sherlock Holmes gets hungry," John muttered, flashing him a grin that Sherlock returned. The case was closed, the criminal was caught, his stomach was about to be full of tasty Chinese food... It was a good day.

"You know... those don't sound like they're coming from Baker Street, do they?"

They were only minutes away from Baker Street when John spoke again, and with the statement, Sherlock began to realise that the sirens that he had been subconsciously listening to were indeed getting louder, not quieter.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Fire engines. I'd imagine the police are probably on scene or on their way, seeing as how they're always there when there's a fire..." he trailed off before an idea struck him. "Another gas leak?" he suggested, lips twisting into a smile at the remembrance of the explosion that had knocked him clean to the floor and left his ears ringing for days. Not technically a gas leak, but John would get the point.

"It better not be a gas leak... _or_ an explosion," John muttered, the previous smile giving way to a scowl. Clearly, he remembered the previous explosion on Baker Street with less fondness, although Sherlock wasn't sure why he was entitled to. _He_ had been across the street from it; John had been in bed (on the lilo) with a woman.

"I don't know," Sherlock said absently, "it would bring some colour."

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he rounded the corner. He'd walked these streets for almost ten years now, between meeting John, faking his death, living alone, and John moving back in following Mary's death. He knew the place like the back of his hand, and he knew where the fire was the moment that he stepped onto Baker Street.

Their flat.

He drew up short as the realisation hit, a brick wall crashing down in front of him and rooting him to the spot. He was vaguely aware of John at his side, but all he could focus on were the orange-red flames licking past the windows of 221B and creeping towards John's upstairs bedroom.

221B.

Sherlock took off running, pushing past the crowd of people surrounding the sidewalks. Firefighters were trying to put out the fire, police were trying to herd the crowd away. Sherlock pushed his way through the throng, the crackling, popping sound of fire snapping in his ears. The crackling, popping sound of _their flat_ burning.

Not his flat. Not his things. He was _not_ letting the place burn down. Not Baker Street. Not home.

He didn't stop to see if John was coming. At this point, it didn't matter. Right now, all that mattered was the flat. _But what are you going to do about it?_ whispered a tiny little voice in the back of his head. He wasn't a fire-fighter and he'd never had any ambitions of the sort, but he couldn't stand there and _watch_ it _burn_. _Not_ Baker Street.

As he ran, he was doing a mental catalogue. These things mattered. There was more here than just his belonginings. Mrs Hudson had gone to her sister's three days ago now for some time in London. She'd only gone as far as Dublin, but Sherlock had complained mightily about it when she'd told them the news. Now, he realised, complaining was the worst thing to have had done because if she had stayed, she very well might have been killed. Secondly, what had caused the fire? Surely not the charred toenails from earlier, because he had doused those in water to try and chase away the horrible smell. This hadn't been _his_ fault, had it? Not John's. Definitely not John's, because John was diligent and intelligent and aware when it came to these mundane, human, inane, _normal_ taskes like keeping a fire extinguisher around when Sherlock played with fire and making sure electrical products that weren't in use were unplugged. He wouldn't leave the oven on, but it was true that Sherlock might forget to turn it off sometimes. But _had_ it been him? He didn't recall anything. If not him, then who? Random passerby? Intentional arson? Gas leak? A lamp or light socket overheating, sparking? _What_?

The police tried to push him back, but Sherlock slipped between them, twisting left and right and left again, charging ahead past the wall of flesh to his destination. No one, _no one_ , was holding him back from the one place he truly belonged.

He hit the door running, throwing it open with his weight. The wood was warm to the touch and flames were peppering the landing. Sherlock barely took notice of them, only saw that the stairs were free and went bounding up them two at a time, the onimous crackling of burning wood echoing in his ears.

He came to a fluid stop in the doorway of their sitting room, his eyes blown wide, pupils reflecting the burning pieces of their lives. _No, really, what was this going to accomplish, running into a burning building?_ He shook the thought away and tore from the spot, grabbing what hadn't already been consumed by the fire on the front part of the building. John's afghan on the back of the chair, the Union Jack pillow, laptop from the kitchen table, where was his violin?

Sherlock had never done the 'what three things would you take from your flat if it were on fire?' quip. Rhetorical questions had never been his strong suit and pointless musings weren't his forte. What was the point of thinking about it? You would never remember those things, he thought, as he coughed mightily, his lungs rebelling against breathing in the smoke-laden air.

Through watering eyes and heavy heart, he caught sight of his violin perched against the hallway wall. Right; he had been polishing it earlier back in his room and he had only gotten as far as the hall with it before being distracted with his mould experiment in the bathroom. He dodged into the hallway to grab it, curling his fingers tightly around the battered case's handle. He didn't know why it was so important to him. It was just an instrument. But it was a genuine Stradivarius, and music was his outlet. He needed his violin to survive, just like he needed his home. But Baker Street -

He winced at a particularly loud crash - the windows bursting in the sitting room, for one, and something else Sherlock couldn't make up - his eyes snapping around to survey the damage as flames licked through the sitting room, dust, debris, and ash around him. The entire front facade was lost to flames, as soon would be the rest of the flat, if the fire wasn't contained

He felt dizzy. And fear. He definitely felt fear.

"Sherlock!? Sherlock, get out of here!" Sherlock heard the voice through his subconscious, but he jolted like he'd been shot when John grabbed his arm. Simultaneously, something exploded in the kitchen and glass shattered. Sherlock felt it hit his back and felt himself flinching into John's presence like he could help. Like John's presence would make it better, but it didn't, not now, because John shouldn't be in here with him, too.

"We have to leave!" John yelled, grabbing at the laptop and pillow in his arms and ripping them free of his grasp. Tenuous fingers tried to hold on, just to something, the last memories of his flat, but his lungs were burning and his eyes stinging, and the way his head was swimming spoke volumes that John was being truthful: they had to leave.

"We can't leave. It's _home_ ," he stressed, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the fire and the crackling as fire licked down the hallway wall towards them. His eyes watered from the smoke and the heat and he coughed, struggling to catch his breath while his chest was so tight.

" _Now!_ "

The human, irrational, emotional, rebellious, _horrified_ part of his mind clicked off. The part telling him that he wasn't Sherlock Holmes without 221B Baker Street blinked out. It was just a flat. There were just objects. They didn't matter. They never had.

He grabbed John's shoulder and spun him towards the doorway, grabbing at his own coat collar to duck his face against afterwards. He shoved John towards the stairs and followed without a backwards glance, leaving behind that he had been living in, _really living in_ , for the best years of his life by far.

But that was sentiment. And that didn't matter.

Control control control.

A minor miracle, or maybe a big one, but Sherlock didn't believe in those before and he was less inclined now, helped them back downstairs and out into the cool air, into the arms of EMTs and police. Sherlock sucked in deep breaths of the cool, clean air, but barely stopped for breath before he was stumbling away; he couldn't stay here, not under the eyes and hands of the EMTs trying to get him into the ambulance to be treated for smoke inhalation and whatever else. Instead, he just grabbed his laptop back from John to move away as quickly as he could possibly manage. There was no point to be here. Not anymore.

He shoved the afghan he had grabbed off the back of John's chair - _was John's, had always been John's, John had brought it when he had moved his stuff in the first time, Sherlock hated it, always hated it, it looked horrible, but it smelled like John because it always hung on the back of John's chair where he sat all day watching mindless telly so Sherlock couldn't complain too much when he invariably ended up covered up with it when he dozed off on the sofa_ \- and shoved it into John's arms, next to the Union Jack pillow John had already taken from him - _that was Sherlock's, he didn't remember why he had it, and it had been in the flat before John had moved in, but there was something sentimental about it because it the first thing John had ever touched when he first saw the flat (look around, "... could be very nice indeed...", set the pillow up, thumped it into shape, fell in the chair that forever became 'his')_ \- and said "Toss it in the bin if you don't want it," before turning away.

He slipped his laptop into his coat and wrapped his arm around his torso to keep it there, switching his violin case to his left hand to pull out his mobile with his right. He turned away from the burning building and dialled Mycroft's number; they'd need a place to stay for tonight, after all, and his wallet had been in the flat and John didn't have enough cash on him right now. Mycroft would already know about the fire, but Sherlock had nowhere else to turn to when tragedy arose, which was the sad, horrible truth about all of this: now, he had to call his brother.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, folks, never run into a burning building, no matter what. There's a lot that's going to happen in this story and my warning is: basically, don't do anything Sherlock does because he's a bit bad at anything that's not crime-solving. :p
> 
> There is going to be a lot of emotional processing at first, so if you're looking for dialogue, I PROMISE, it will come in upcoming chapters. But Sherlock's got to come to terms with this first, and you know how well Sherlock does emotions.
> 
> I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies it the layout is a little off; it wasn't working correctly and I tried to make do!

"Hello, John."

Sherlock faintly heard Mycroft greet John as he bustled through the familiar halls of his brother's flat. Lavish flat. Expensive flat. Stupid, posh flat. It was a fusion of modern and classical furniture, clutter-free and completely spotless, with pale gray carpet that showed his ash-outlined footprints as he headed back to his bedroom.

His bedroom at Mycroft's flat. Unfortunately, yes, he did have one. He had stayed with Mycroft after his apparent suicide and some times since, because of experiments gone wrong, but he hated the place. It was too... neat, almost so that it stifled him to death, and he was already having a hard enough time breathing as it was.

He had some clothes here, and a burner phone in case of emergencies, and high-quality satin sheets on the bed that were calling his name relentlessly.

Sherlock set his laptop and violin on the dresser before peeling his coat off, glass fragments falling down harmlessly onto the plush carpet, overlaid with soot and ash as he shook the coat out. He found a hanger in the small closet and hung the coat on the doorframe, kicking off his shoes afterwards and then traipsing to the bathroom to lock himself in and have a long, hot shower.

The cab ride from Baker Street to here had only taken a handful of minutes, but it had felt like an eternity. Silence was louder than words right now. Sherlock didn't want anything to do with either of them, so he was doing what he had perfected so many, many years ago: he was switching off. It was so much easier to deny facing it than to face it and writhe in pain.

The shower was hot, although not entirely relaxing, as the scalding water bounced off his skin and washed the ash and soot down the drain filtered through only the barest level of his consciousness. He washed off methodically, washed his hair, rinsed, and turned the water off. His body was exhausted, mentally and physically. Add in emotionally compromised, and Sherlock stood, dripping wet in front of the mirror for a few, long moments before remembering: towel off, dressing gown, walk to bedroom. He couldn't fall asleep standing up in the shower.

He dried off with the thick, plush towel and pulled a neatly-folded black dressing gown from one of the drawers, shoving his arms through the sleeves and clumsily tying the sash. He cracked open a new toothbrush from another drawer, and a new tube of toothpaste, brushed his teeth, and shuffled his way back across the hallway into his room.  
   
He closed and locked the door behind him.

Nostrils flaring with a soft sigh, he went to the bed and shoved the blankets aside only enough to crawl between them, curling up beneath their soft embrace with tense shoulders and a headache.

Some very vague, uninterested, wanting to be distracted part of his mind wondered if this was like what John had felt like when Mary had died. Or maybe even after he had been shot in Afghanistan. Time was floating and thoughts were scattered like sand particles, shifting. The weight on his chest pressed too hard, over his heart and lungs, and made it impossible to draw a full breath. How long had he been here at Mycroft's already? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Everything was smothered in the face of the reality that had happened and...

Sherlock hated to admit it, but it was mind-numbing.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

He must have been dozing, sometime, somehow. The exhaustion was hanging over his body in heavy layers, but sleep wasn't coming like it should. Maybe it never would. Maybe he would just die of exhaustion.

At some point, Sherlock heard his bedroom door crack open. It was John, because it was always John, locked doors not a hindrance, but Sherlock didn't move from his spot on the bed. He had feigned unconsciousness time and time over - he did a lot of it when he was a kid - so he knew how to keep his breathing, how to feign unconscious movement by clumsily moving his arms up around his head, sighing softly for effect. His throat was killing him.

John didn't say anything, though, just stepped into the room silently and went to the windows to close the blinds and pull the curtains. Darkness as an escape from the mid-evening glare of sunshine immediately settled around them. Sherlock would have thanked him if it was other circumstances; the light killed his head when he was trying to work through 'human emotions'. It was like having a bad migraine that wouldn't go away, emotions.

When consciousness swam back to him again, Sherlock was having nightmares. One minute, he had been in a soft, warm bed with his curls splayed out against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, and the next, he was surrounded by flames and burning furniture, case files, and the maniacal face of a now very-much dead James Moriarty staring out at him from the ashes.

He woke up with a shuddering gasp, the thick scent of smoke deep in his nostrils and strangling him. No, no; this was all in his mind. There wasn't smoke in the flat. This was Mycroft's house. It wasn't on fire.

Rationally, he knew his mind controlled the vivid almost-hallucination, but his body failed to realise it. His heart was thrumming beneath a sweat-soaked chest, lungs aching for oxygen as he curled around his pillow in a hopeless attempt to smother his coughing. His lungs felt like they were on fire, his throat was charred raw from the smoke he'd inhaled earlier. He had only been in the flat for fifteen seconds longer than John, but that was like a lifetime in a smoke-encased building.

He coughed until his coughing turned to gagging, his stomach rebelling. He kicked the blankets away and scrambled out of bed, crossing the room in a few short steps. He ran down the hallway with his hand clapped over his mouth, bare feet more or less muted by the thick carpeting on the floor. He didn't bother to close the bathroom door behind him; it was roughly four in the morning and tasting the burning avid of bile on the back of his tongue did very little to persuade him to take the few extra seconds to close it.  
   
Crashing to his knees in front of the toilet, he threw up violently, never-mind that there was hardly anything in his stomach to bring back up. He hadn't been eating because of the case and their dinner had been spoiled by the fact that their flat was on fire. Remnants of tea and toast and cups of coffee made up his vomit, he noted idly; those were luxuries that he'd never experience in his own flat again and yet, there they were, half-digested in the toilet basin.

Sherlock coughed weakly and swallowed against the burning ache in his throat.

It seemed like it took every ounce of energy in his body to reach back and flush the toilet and then push himself to his feet. His entire body was shaking. He was getting too old for this. Or maybe the mental strain had him feeling a bit older than forty-three... but no matter the reason, he didn't want to end up in front of the toilet, vomiting up meagre suppers any time in the near future again.

"Hey..."

Sherlock flinched from the voice - John's, hesitant, half-asleep - his nerves shooting taut before unravelling again, the invisible rubber band snapping and his stomach reacting again. He spun for the sink this time to cough and retch, knowing that nothing else would be coming back up except bile and saliva. He put things into his mouth he shouldn't for the sake of science - two week old pasta or not washing his hands after rooting through skips - so he knew what he was going to cough back up. That was the only reason he went for the sink. As amusing as the thought of throwing up all over Mycroft's penthouse would, he wouldn't actually do it because... yeah, he had standards.

"... You okay?" John murmured, stepping into the bathroom.

Alarms went off in Sherlock's mind - _boundaries_ \- as John stepped closer, too close in Sherlock's peripheral vision, and his head snapped up with what he could only describe as anger. He didn't know why, and he didn't want to be angry, but he didn't want John around. He wanted to be alone now, and maybe for the indefinite future, but, despite John's best intentions, he didn't want to talk.

"I'm fine," he bit off, holding up his hand to stop John in his tracks. His voice was hoarse. He didn't really sound fine, but it didn't matter. A hoarse voice and raw throat just gave him reason not to talk. He turned on the tap, washed his hands, and splashed some water on his face. "Go to bed," he continued, knuckling the tap off again and drying his hands on his dressing gown.

He pushed past John and strode back into the hallway, padding towards the kitchen instead of the bedroom. He desperately needed some tea.

John followed him. Sherlock knew he was there, he knew that too well, actually, and, for once in his life, he wished he'd leave. Because the ghost-like behaviour was irritating beyond belief. With any luck, if he didn't talk to him, he'd go away. Unfortunately, he knew John well enough to know that he wouldn't. And that just made him angry.

There was a tray sitting on the kitchen island, gold and shining even in the darkness, holding a teapot, two sturdy mugs, several flavours of tea in a small woven basket, an ornate glass jar of honey, and a lemon sitting on the counter next to the kettle. Sherlock tried not to think about it too much. Mycroft had clearly been expecting Sherlock to be awake in the middle of the night, but if Sherlock dwelled on the fact that someone else was trying to help when he didn't need it, his irritation level would fly beyond the rails.

He knew the state of his nerves and he knew that he was toeing danger level, as far as how much he could handle. Rarely did he have so much to swallow that he ended up erupting in a rush of ill-wishes and shouting. It took a lot to make him raise his voice, but his entire life burning to the ground kind of seemed like a good reason for being pissed off at the world.

Instead of focussing on all of that, because he couldn't, not right now, he just made himself a cup of orange spice tea and took it back to his bedroom. He crawled back into bed and sat back, leaning against the headboard. He drank his tea slowly, breathing in the steam, the scent of black pepper and nutmeg and the sweet, calming smell of oranges. He was trying to relax. Unfortunately, a cup of tea wouldn't be able to help him do that right now. He knew that, but yet, he was hanging onto forlorn hopes that it would anyway.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on.

By seven o' clock in the morning, Sherlock was out of his room, showered, having consumed a breakfast of another cuppa and a half piece of toast. He'd taken the lemon from the kitchen and took it down familiar hallways until he came to Mycroft's bedroom, where had he sat the fruit down in front of the door and strode back through the hallways to the lounge.

Mycroft was already dressed in the usual black, three-piece suit when he strode into the lounge later. "Sherlock, why was there a lemon in front of my bedroom door? I suppose you'll be pleased to know that I almost tripped over it."

Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop, but his lips twisted towards a twisted version of a smirk. He pressed his back more firmly against the sofa and folded his legs more comfortably beneath him. "Because you're sour and never seem to leave."

"The travelling lemon? Now?"

"I saw an opportunity." Sherlock looked up. "I also saw the paperwork that one of your assistants slipped through my door around five. I've marked the ones that are promising, although I'm sure you realise that they are out of my price range. Even between the money from consulting and John's work and Mary's legacy, we won't be able to support ourselves in places like these." He held out the files to Mycroft.

"Yes," Mycroft said absently, taking the files and fanning them briefly. "I am aware."

"And why is there nothing in Central?"

Now Mycroft raised his eyebrows, looking up at him. "Sherlock, how many vacancies do you think are in Central London? The ones that are vacant are for good reason; if you thought these were out of your price range, you'd be long expired before he had a chance to pay me back for one there."

Sherlock tried to batter back the irritation, but it showed through flared nostrils and tense shoulders. He knew it was true. The consulting business was lucrative enough to keep him at Baker Street, only because of the deal he and Mrs Hudson had had, but having to start over like this meant that he had no wiggle room. Central London was expensive. But Central London was _home_ to him.

"I'm not looking forward to having to pay you back at all," he muttered instead of voicing his thoughts aloud. "Alright, let's get a visual. I'm sure you have camera activity at all of the properties you watch." He rolled his eyes as he stood up.

Mycroft's eyes were following him, but Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, just headed for the doorway.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Mycroft asked shortly.

"Shut up," Sherlock retorted.

* * *

 

Looking at CCTV footage of flats - or houses, some were actual houses - wasn't the best way to start a morning. Nonetheless, Sherlock sat next to Mycroft silently and set to the task of scanning through each. Neither of them said a word, which Sherlock was fine with, except for the occasional, resounding "No" when Sherlock happened upon a flat he didn't like.

He knew, almost immediately, when John was coming. He heard his footsteps in the otherwise silent hall. He was probably eating one of those raspberry and chocolate scones that had been on the countertop in the kitchen. John liked chocolate scones. He liked raspberry jam. So, of course he would like a raspberry chocolate scone. Why was he even thinking about this?

John cleared his throat. "Morning."

Well. Great that _someone_ wanted to talk.

"I've narrowed it down to three different places. Mycroft will show you CCTV footage for the possibilities I've picked out. Two are single-level flats, the other is a duplex in the country," Sherlock said, spinning around in the swivel chair. "Figure out which one you could live with, because it's the one we'll be living _in_." He stood, drawing himself up to full height and strode from the room without another word.

No nonsense. This was the way that he was going to handle it. No nonsense and no feeling.

Now, he was going to get his already-dry-cleaned coat from the entranceway, grab a cab, and head off to check out the places in person. He wasn't staying with Mycroft longer than he could help it, so: reconnaissance. He also wanted to go back to Baker Street and inspect the damage...

"I hope you weren't planning to inspect those flats without me."

Sherlock's fingers fumbled around his coat. John was, literally, his shadow. Sherlock knew this, after ten years of living with or near him, but this... was it always this bad? Or was John just hovering _because_ he thought Sherlock needed it?

He shook his head slightly, chasing away the flicker of annoyance and that strange brush of anger, continuing to button up his coat. "Of course not," he said smoothly, looping his scarf around his neck. "Why would I do it without you?" He turned and pulled the door open, striding off down the street to find a cab.

John never responded, and he didn't say anything even when they were both tucked into a cab. Sherlock was eternally grateful that he wasn't speaking. He didn't know if he was doing it for his benefit or just because he didn't feel like talking, either, but John usually liked to pry. Well, he had before he had gotten married, anyway, and after Sherlock had come back, things had never been the same, and after Mary had died, John hadn't been in a state to talk at all.

Sherlock had done a lot of coaxing John to actually _live_ those first few weeks after Mary had died. Of course, it hadn't been talking more than was warranted - Sherlock hadn't felt like talking then, either -, but if John refused to leave his bedroom for more than forty-eight hours, Sherlock was there, literally dragging him out of his bed and even one morning going as far as trying to undress him to get him into some clean clothes before John had snapped out of it and stormed into the loo to do it himself.

And then, of course, Sherlock had gone home and took a too-hot shower that had scalded his skin and proceeded to flat-out _sob_ while he was under the confines of the water, where no one could see that he was emotional about the whole thing. Because he had to be Sherlock in front of John during those dark days. John needed Sherlock to be the same person he always had been and that did not mean letting John see into that depressed part of his mind that had mourned Mary and the child more than John seemed to sometimes.

Sherlock had, naturally, never told John had bad things had gotten on _his_ end after Mary and the unborn Watson daughter had died. He had never told John just how aware of where he kept his gun he was, and how aware he was of how many rounds he kept in it. He just... had never wanted to entertain the conversation.

And speaking of Mary, or thinking of her, anyway (which were things Sherlock didn't like to do, because he invariably ended up feeling sentimental), John had just instructed the cab to stop. When Sherlock glanced up, he found that they were outside of a tea shop that John and Mary had always frequented. They had all gone there one afternoon, together, and Sherlock had gotten black tea with orange zest and Mary and John had shared a raspberry-jam filled pastry, where John had gotten jam on his lips and Mary had leaned in for the kiss that would make Sherlock's emotion with amusement as John blushed and muttered about _'Mary, we're in public!'_.

But, bringing up the reminder of Mary's death - and John's daughter, but Sherlock really went into hysterics if he thought that way, and he had, one night, so upset that he'd ended up making himself sick, a sinus infection from crying that he told John was a cold and John hadn't been in the right state of mind to question it - was hardly beneficial when they had just lost their flat.

Sherlock turned his head away from the tea shop and went back to texting Mycroft, not moving until John come back. When he did, Sherlock simply took the lemon tea John had bought him, didn't say a word of thanks, and continued to text. He'd throw it out at the next stop. Wasn't that it wasn't appealing. He just didn't drink tea from this establishment anymore. Dare he say _too many memories_.

It was a long day.

In the end, they ended up settling on the duplex. John liked it best - and Sherlock didn't have to even ask which John liked best because Sherlock could read it his body language and how much time he spent looking at each room, planning out their new layout if this would really become their flat - and Sherlock didn't care. As long as he had somewhere to stay, that wasn't Mycroft's house, he didn't care. It was just a flat, after all.

By morning, Sherlock would have everything set in motion. The flat would be furnished, thanks to Mycroft. Still, technically, the furniture wouldn't be _theirs_. The teacups wouldn't be theirs and they would have the taste of Mycroft and his attendants written all over them, but it was a flat.

That was all that mattered. He guessed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're moving on physically, but not necessarily mentally.
> 
> I do not own _Sherlock_ and the travelling lemon belongs to John Finnemore.  
> Look forward to the next chapter! :) Hope to see your thoughts. Thanks!


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving on, literally. To a new home.

"Home, sweet home," Sherlock said dryly, dropping his duffel bag into the entranceway. His voice was coming back, slowly but surely, in the few days it had been since the afternoon of the fire. His throat still ached, but he wouldn't go to doctor for it. There were more pressing things, like the fact that he had very little clothing left to his name, only the clothes that had been at Mycroft's that were now shoved irritably into the duffel bag he'd just dropped.

Without another word, he turned and took the steps two a time upstairs. Both of the bedrooms were upstairs this time. The last time Sherlock had slept upstairs had been when he had camped out in the attic when he was a child because he hadn't wanted to sleep in the same room as Mycroft. But it had been so hot in the attic, Sherlock's plan had been ruined. Hopefully, the central air in the house would chase summer heat away from the upstairs now. Sherlock hated sleeping when it was hot.

He tightened his grip on his laptop in one hand, his violin case in the other, and toed open the door to the bedroom that was now his. It definitely had Mycroft's touch; Sherlock could see it in the curtains, the duvet, and the carpet. Strangely, though, there were bits of Sherlock already in this room, too. There was a framed copy of the periodic table hanging on the wall, similar to his previous one but different in colour and font. Sherlock stared at it blankly for a long moment before stepping forward, putting his laptop onto the desk in the corner. Nearly identical to the old desk in Sherlock's old room, albeit a lot neater.

He shook his head and dropped his violin onto the double bed, flopping face-first into the brand new duvet. He ran his fingers idly over the worn-down, beaten-up case. It was one singularity, one instance of normalcy in this otherwise topsy-turvy world.

This definitely wasn't home. Yes, it was their flat. But a 'house' wasn't always necessarily a 'home'.

He guessed it was up to him and John to make it into one.

Instead of bothering to find something else to do, Sherlock stayed exactly where he was: sprawled out, laying across his bed with his face in the blankets. He left his room occasionally to use the loo, traipsing down the hallway with sluggish limbs and little enthusiasm. He went to get a cuppa once, but he just wasn't hungry or thirsty. Honestly, he wasn't in much of a mood to do _anything_.

That was depression. He knew that. He was determined not to let it get the best of him, but he also told himself that he'd deal with it later. He had the power to break out of the sluggishness. Sure. He didn't just want to right now.

He also didn't want to sleep. Or, maybe he did, but he _couldn't_. He hadn't done that for four, maybe five days now. He hadn't been sleeping because of the case prior to the fire, and now, after everything that had happened, all he saw when he closed his eyes were the flickering imprints of flames tearing down Baker Street.

He was reaching his limit, although he wasn't consciously aware of it. All he was consciously aware of was that he wanted to be sprawled out across their sofa with two or three nicotine patches, but his sofa wasn't there and neither were his nicotine patches.

Midnight crept by with the ticking of an ornate clock on the wall, and then one, and then two. Sherlock pressed his forehead into his pillow - too new, too stiff, too _not_ plushy - and stifled a groan. It wasn't like he didn't _want_ to sleep, no. He definitely did. Sleep was the only refuge from this terrible reality. But it was physically impossible. He was wound so tightly that he couldn't relax and he wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to come back from that. If there had been a sleeping aid in this flat, he would have taken double the intended dose and been out like a light. That was probably the reason there was _no_ sleeping agents in the flat.

With an annoyed growl, he pushed himself into a sitting position and flung the tangled blankets away, grabbing his violin from the foot of the bed. He flipped the latches and jerked the violin out, whisking his bow free.

He wasn't in the mood for music so much as he was a distraction, so he didn't look for a composition in his vast room of Music Knowledge in his mind palace. Instead, he just sawed his bow back and forth over the noise, ignoring as the grating, screeching notes bit into his throbbing head, over and over again. He'd done this once before to chase Mycroft out of their flat; maybe it would work to chase away his thoughts.

It wasn't as though the notes helped that crushing headache settled permanently beneath his left temple, but the fact that John thumped down the hallway not a whole thirty seconds later and proceeded to pound on his door brought the first flicker of amusement that he'd felt in _days_ to his body.

"Sherlock, stop that _right_ now or I _swear_ I will have Mycroft lock it up in one of his secret bases!"

It wasn't funny, it wasn't. But it was funny that John was angry at him. For some reason.

His own emotions were so dark and twisted that he was in a remarkably dark place, for him. His strops that were dark and twisted usually ended up with cocaine and drug dens, a die-hard habit, product of his past. But even the urge to go out and shoot up wasn't there, not right now, but instead replaced with the urge to see how far he could push _John_ before _he_ snapped. John snapping was better than Sherlock letting himself snap, right?

He jerked the bow harshly across the _d_ string, scowling at his bedroom door as the sharp, wailing note echoed in the now-silence of the flat. That was his not-so-silent way of saying _Piss off!_ with a capital _P_.

He tapped his fingers against the polished wood of his violin for a second, awaiting to see what John would do. Regardless of the threats, Sherlock didn't _want_ to stop playing and therefore he wouldn't. He had to resist the insane urge to put two fingers on the _a_ and peel off a _c sharp_ , fingers itching to be back against the strings.

His door flung open seconds later. John marched in with his shoulders squared and expression set. "I understand," he said - it sounded like his teeth were gritted - "that the last few days haven't been easy for you, Sherlock, and maybe you don't want to sleep, but _some_ of us do."

Sherlock didn't look up, but he was helpless to stop the very brief, vaguely homicidal grin that flashed across his lips. His back was to the door now, so John wouldn't see it, but the amusement was fresh in his mind. That was bad, he knew it was. He shouldn't be taking humour out of annoying his flatmate. After all, if John hadn't been out with him to get dinner, he might not even _have_ a flatmate at all right now.

But he shook that thought away and raised his bow back into playing position. He returned to playing the patchy notes that had been sawing off before, ignoring John's presence behind him. He knew how this was going to end. He knew John would eventually tear the violin from his hands to prevent him from playing, take it with him so he could go back to sleep. But it didn't matter the end result. He was pushing all the wrong boundaries, anyway: how long he could go without food, without sleeping, what made John tick. Why should he put bother into trying to make amends while he was still actively tearing them down?

He heard John's footsteps. He was going to yell him into what he hoped was cooperation, Sherlock anticipated, and his already-coiled body tightened further, awaiting the moment where John would raise his voice. He could practically hear the adrenalin pumping through his body; there was a fight to be had. Or at least: he was going to be yelled at. Close enough.

But then John did something Sherlock hadn't expected at all: he put his hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock jerked as though he'd been shot. He had expected a row. He hadn't expected _compassion_. He couldn't _deal_ with that.

"Get _off_ ," he snapped, the amount of venom dripping from his tone surprising even himself, and retreated to the other side of the room. He delved into his mind palace to find composition now and put the bow back against the strings, but his hands were shaking now, so much so that the trembling was actually causing errors in his usually flawless playing.

He was a _mess_. The sheer weight of that crashed down on him in that moment, almost chasing away whatever John was saying in the background:

"You need to rest".

"Leave. Me. Alone," Sherlock intoned, jerking a staccato note, each louder and more screechy than the last, to punctuate each word. "I'll sleep when I'm tired. If _you're_ so worried about it, _you_ should be in bed," he continued bluntly. "Piss off and leave me alone."

Part of his mind said it was very, very strange to be on the giving end of that order. Most people _him_ to piss off, not the other way around. It was... interesting, he supposed. But, really, he was too tired to care. He just wished John would leave him alone so he could go back to suffering on his own. Was solitude really too much to ask?

John crossed his arms. "No. I'm not leaving. Someone needs to haul your sorry arse into bed when you finally collapse." Sherlock watched from the corner of his eyes as John walked across the room and dropped into the large chair in the corner of the room. He met Sherlock's gaze. "You're trying to handle things on your own again, Sherlock. You should know by now that that never works out for you."

"Fine." Sherlock jerked his violin and bow away from his chest and flung both of them onto the bed. " _I'll_ leave."

He swept from the room, his dressing gown billowing out behind him. It was blue, but it wasn't _his_ because those had gone out of production ages ago. He could have found a maroon one easily enough, but his blue, striped one was impossible. Besides, the maroon one didn't matter; the _blue_ one had been the one he had lived in the most at Baker Street...

Sherlock shook his head, too fast, because the world spun wildly and he stumbled into the wall, barely catching himself. Annoying. All of this. Every damn thing. Because first the flat and then Mycroft and now _this_ flat and everything was _too damn quiet_. Being in the country versus being on one of the most travelled streets in Central London? There was a difference and the silence was making his head hurt because _this wasn't where they were supposed to be._

He wasn't sure where he was going, but he figured a walk was probably the best bet. It probably wasn't, actually, given his physical state, but mentally, he wanted to be alone. He took the stairs two a time down, until about the eighth stair from the bottom, where his physical state decided to conveniently give out and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

He was unconscious before he would have had time to blink, which was for the best; falling down eight stairs in a tumble of sleep-deprived limbs and a pounding headache wasn't going to really help anything, so at least he wasn't conscious to witness the pain as he fell.

 


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebuilding or still tearing down?

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was hurting, that something wasn't right, that something unnatural besides their flat burning down had happened, and despite that, his body simply did not want to face the world of the conscious right now. Neither did his mind, because there was bliss in unconsciousness, where he couldn't wallow in pity or anger or confusion or irritation that he couldn't just _get on_ with his life after something so seemingly insignificant but yet so important that it made his entire _being_ hurt.

So, despite the blood and the physical pain, between the mental anguish and the tangible irritation, Sherlock was mostly just about done with the whole damn thing. His mind had been done for awhile - that's why he was on such a short fuse, why he wouldn't and couldn't talk - but his body had finally caught up. He wasn't waking up until he was sure that things were going to be better.

Unfortunately, they weren't going to be.

So, that just meant sleeping until his body made up for the horrible treatment that Sherlock had been providing it the past few days (and even before that, because of the case). It meant trying to jump-start his mind again like you would a car when the battery died, but this was more fragile, most time-consuming. He needed time to come back to everything and it wasn't going to happen in the matter in of minutes that John, if he was watching, probably wanted it to right now.

Without so much as a twitch, Sherlock merely kept right on sleeping as blood trickled down his cheek and his hair fell into his eyes, because he was just that tired.

By the time that he pried his eyes open again, it was dark outside. Which didn't make much sense, did it...? It had been dark when he had gotten up the first time, but he had the sense that he'd been sleeping for a really long time. Was it already the next night...? Sure, he could sleep for a long period of time if he hadn't been sleeping (and he hadn't been lately) but...

Where was he, even? What had happen? He had no concious recollection of falling asleep... but then he realised that he must have passed out, because that was the only time he ever woke up in a confused fog.

"Hey," John's voice said quietly.

Sherlock slowly edged his gaze to John. Why did it hurt to move his head, move his eyes? That... meant that he must have hit his head, his mind slowly supplied, slowly coming back to himself after his unintentional post-case crash. That was reinforced by the fact that his head was pounding and that there was a cool cloth on his forehead, which he had to begrudgingly admit that it was helping the throbbing headache.

"I'll give you this in a moment, but first you need to tell me if anything hurts more than it should."

John was talking to him, asking him with deep-set worry in his eyes if he was okay, holding a glass of orange juice in one hand. _Alright, just wait a minute_ , Sherlock wanted to say, but it was too much effort to unstick his tongue from the roof his mouth, so he just focussed on inner deductions rather than responding immediately.

His head hurt - obvious. He didn't know what had happened, really, but he had probably hit his head when he fell... although he still couldn't get a hold on _where_ he had fallen from. He supposed it didn't matter. The fact that John was holding orange juice (something that Sherlock didn't even like) reaffirmed the fact that he had passed out without external influence; his body had, most likely, simply given out. It happened enough for him not to question it, or the pain that occasionally followed. But, John was asking, so focus on other things.

His shoulder was throbbing, too. He must have hit it as well. There wasn't enough pain for it to be dislocated, so probably just a massive bruise forming there. Sherlock shifted slightly, experimentally. No pain in his back, not any more than was expected from a fall, anyway. Nothing sharp, nothing shooting, certainly nothing debilitating. He curled his fingers into a fist, flexing his muscles. Nothing there, nothing in the opposite arm. Toes to knees to thighs, pain-free. It was too much effort to check his hips for superficial pains, but he was seventy-nine percent sure that there was no lasting damage there, either. Check later.

Nauseous. That was probably to be expected, though - he _had_ hit his head, after all. Headache. Again, expected. Vaguely aware of the fact that there was some sensitivity to ligth, and also sound, but nothing enough to ask John to turn off the light. Tired, but that was probably because... well, he _thought_ that he'd been asleep for awhile. He'd wake up a bit more once he'd been conscious longer.

Sherlock shook his head, side to side, _very_ slowly. He was testing his limits now, on purpose. He was somewhat disappointed, but not really surprised, when the headache intensified and dizziness swam across his vision, but he expected that would go away, too.

"I'm okay," he allowed, voice hoarse. "... How long was I asleep?" he mumbled, slowly reaching forward to take the orange juice from John. He took a small sip. He needed the sugar.

John leaned back and blew out a deep breath. "You," he muttered, "are a bloody lucky git. You could have cracked your skull open or sufferened massive internal trauma."

Sherlock rolled his eyes when John mentioned trauma, geared up to follow the eye-roll with a dismissive _Dull_ , but stopped when even moving his eyes in such a quick motion made his throb. It usually didn't hurt that much when he had a headache, did it? _Well, you did crack your head open on the floor. Or the stairs. Or the railing. Somewhere around there._ He only half remembered what had happened. That part wasn't terribly uncommon after he fainted; he never remembered much after fainting and then waking up again. It was usually because his body was too tired, anyway.

This was _slightly_ different, though. It really hurt. He was going to actually need ice for this. He was definitely going to have bruises, on various parts of his body.

"You're sure you're okay?" John murmured, reaching out for Sherlock's head but then hesitating. His hand fell away uselessly after a moment.

 _I'm alive, aren't I?_ Sherlock thought sardonically. He was fine.

He took another sip of his orange juice. His unsettled stomach took the unwanted addition as a direct insult, a punch to the gut that had him scrambling up faster than he thought possible right now. Blackness erupted before his vision but it didn't matter because the gorge had already been rising deep in his throat to begin with.

He wrapped one arm around his stomach and his other hand went to his head because of his pounding temples before doubling over to heave mostly bile and orange juice, and whatever else mish-mosh of food he'd put in his mouth as of late (not much), onto the floor. Moving wasn't an option now; it was all too hopelessly far away.

John's hands somehow ended up against his back, pressed against his sweat-damp shirt, while he prattled on about something _it's okay_ or some rubbish like that.

Sherlock swallowed and looked for his orange juice, only to become startlingly aware of the fact that he had spilled it in his mad dash to sit up, and it was now soaking into the seat of his trousers and the sofa. Good thing the sofa was leather.

In the process of one, two, three?, he didn't remember but it couldn't have been long, day(s) that they had been here, they'd managed to christen the new flat with blood in the stairway, orange juice on the sofa cushions, and vomit on the sitting room floor.

... Almost kind of the same things that had always happened at Baker Street.

Sherlock almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead: "Concussion," he cracked out. Because that was what it had to be. The nausea hadn't gone away since the... since the flat had burned down, but he hadn't been throwing up because of it unless he tried to eat. The headache, the dizziness, the lightheadedness and the sensitivity, it all pointed towards a concussion. _Damn_ , he thought, closing his eyes. He was going to be out of commission for a few days. Not that he was really _in_ to begin with.

"No, Sherlock, open your eyes," John said suddenly. "Open your eyes."

Sherlock sighed shakily. "I've had concussions before," he said, instead of opening his eyes. "I'm fine." He paused and then slowly opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he looked at John. "Can you get me some paracetamol and ice?" he asked plaintively.

He was going to get up. He really was. He'd been here for... he didn't know how long, but it had to have been awhile. And while he _was_ dehydrated, he ought to be somewhere closer to a bathroom for whenever he _did_ need the loo, or when he needed to throw up again if necessary. The spilled orange juice was cold and sticky against his skin and he needed to change clothes, but... He just couldn't move right now. His head was pounding. With medication and some ice, hopefully it would dull enough for him to be able to handle some maintenance, on his own.

John sighed, releasing Sherlock's shoulder to stand up. "All right. Just... give me a minute," he muttered, fixating him with what Sherlock called his _doctor's glare_. "And don't try to get up. I don't..." he trailed off, swallowed, nodded seemingly to himself, and strode away.

Sherlock wanted his shirt off, as well as his trousers because it was just becoming plain uncomfortable now, the orange juice, but that versus passing out again... he'd taken uncomfortable for now. He leaned back against the sofa again, wincing. He drew his fingers up to press again his ribs, one by one, as he felt around for anything out of place. Bruises, maybe a fracture on one or two... but he thought just a bruise.

"Okay," John said as he walked back in, "ice and medication." He handed both ice and pills over, along with a glass of water. "How's your head? Any vision problems?"

Sherlock let his hands fall away from his ribs. "No. I'm dizzy and lightheaded, both of which are to be expected." He swallowed the pills with a sip of the water. "I get double vision if I move my eyes too fast, but I'm attempting to not do that for the sake of not having double vision." He pressed the ice again his head, leaning heavily back into the sofa cushions. "I'm fine."

It was apparently the wrong thing to say. The lines around John's eyes tightened, his shoulders straightened. "You are _not_ fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged slightly.

"How many times do we have to go through this?" John asked. Sherlock looked up at him dolefully, but John continued before he could say anything. "You _do_ this _all_ the time. You say you're okay even when you're falling apart. Haven't you learned by now that it's _alright_ to be _human_? You are _allowed_ to have emotions."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, getting to his feet clumsily. The world swam dangerously, but hearing this conversation was far more dangerous for his state of mental health right now.

"No, don't do that." John grabbed his arm. "Don't walk away. Not now."

Sherlock irritably tried to shake him off while simultaneously trying not to make himself stumble. It was a difficult battle. "Get off."

"No."

"John."

"You do _not_ get to do this, Sherlock!"

"Let go!" Sherlock retorted, jerking his wrist free.

John's fighting irritation turned into a full glare. "No!" The next thing Sherlock knew, he was pushed back against the wall, held there by John's tight grip on his arms. Clearly, the intent had been to slam him back, but some, now-buried part of John's mind must have been holding back. Thankfully. "I know you've had it rough the past couple of days, Sherlock, but you aren't the only one in this! _I'm_ here, too! _I_ lived in that flat that burned down, too, you know?! So, you don't get to sit and moan about over the loss of your life because _we were both there!_ It's not _just you!_ "

It wasn't funny anymore. This, making John angry, making him snap. Or maybe it had never been funny. His priorities were too skewed that Sherlock didn't even know what he was thinking anymore. He stared down at John blankly. It was like he was actually seeing him for the first time since the fire. He didn't like what he saw... in John, or in the reflection bouncing back at him in John's eyes.

John blinked and inhaled sharply, dropping his hands. He took a step away, eyebrows furrowing, confusion or surprise or _something_ flickering across his face. He looked at his hands - they were trembling - before curling them into fists. Then he shook his head slightly, cleared his throat, and slowly sank into the sofa. He looked like he was in shock.

Sherlock swallowed, swallowing back pain, nausea, heartbreak and sadness and the overwhelming urge to escape, and fixed his dressing gown. He painstakingly took the few steps to the sofa again and sank down gingerly next to John.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. They're trying.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His last vow - it's still in effect, even now.

"... Sherlock... er, downstairs..."

"It's fine."

Sherlock tightened his grip around John's sleeve, hanging on as if his life depended upon it. Right now, it felt like it did, as John helped him stagger his way back upstairs and into his bedroom.

John sighed heavily. "No... it's not." He staggered slightly from Sherlock's weight, but Sherlock could barely support himself at this point. He needed to be sleeping, not leaning on John. "I... yeah, I was out of line," John muttered.

"You're emotionally drained," Sherlock said flatly. "You have every right to act in the way you did in the situation that arose."

"Yeah, but-"

"I'm also emotionally drained, so I'm doing very little to lighten your mood," Sherlock continued, staring dully at his bedroom door down the hall. It seemed so far away.

John paused for a moment, his fingers curling around Sherlock's dressing gown as he shifted his grip. "... Yeah."

"I was out of line for not taking your emotions into account," Sherlock said, keeping the same monotone. It was easier to talk if he sounded like he didn't care.

"You hardly ever take _anyone's_ feelings into consideration," John pointed out.

Sherlock laughed dryly. The noise sounded foreign. "I don't. I think we've discovered that when emotions are involved, I'm generally always in the wrong."

"No, you just try not to feel and you make yourself feel worse in doing so."

Sherlock paused, mentally. "... Yeah, maybe so," he muttered, after a second. It was probably too close to the truth, even for his own liking. "... Sorry," he mumbled, ducking his head.

Genuine surprise emanated off of John as they paused in the doorway. Sherlock wished they'd hurry up. He wanted to change clothes but it was all seemingly a forlorn hope; he was far too close to the teetering abyss of unconsciousness to do anything except hope he stayed awake long enough to finish having this conversation. Somehow... he knew it was important. Very important, and not just for his sake, either.

"You don't have to apologise," John said quietly.

"In the same vein, neither do you," Sherlock replied immediately.

John laughed quietly. "Okay... we've decided neither of us need to apologise. So... How about, can you tell me when you were going to start eating again?"

The tension was back, just like that, but Sherlock hadn't the strength to play along with it. "When I can," he said, truthfully.

"When you can...?"

"Yes. I literally can't stomach anything."

"Are you getting sick?" They stopped next to Sherlock's bed. "Here, hang on..." With method of a determined doctor, John quickly stripped Sherlock's dressing gown, trousers, and pants. "Do you want to change into-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. His legs were shaking and he had to sit down, or his body would sit down without instruction. He'd already done enough sitting down without instruction. So, bypassing clothes, or even taking his shirt off, he fell onto his mattress and curled up, making a blind grab for the blankets. "And I'm not sick, although I might be if I don't... get back to a normal routine." He winced, drawing his arm over his eyes. "I just... my stomach," he muttered, waving his free hand vaguely in its direction.

He wasn't hungry, not in the least, and when he _had_ tried to eat, his stomach had protested and he had ended up throwing up. It happened over beverages sometimes, but he could mostly handle tea and water. It was a mess, one driven by emotions and stress.

John pulled the blankets up over Sherlock's shoulder. "Okay," he murmured. "I know. How about I make some soup? Just a broth, if nothing else. We'll start small. But you need to get something in your system, Sherlock."

"Later," Sherlock mumbled, tucking himself further under the blanket.

"Yeah, of course." John's hand hovered over the blankets before it settled back on Sherlock's shoulder, two fingers pressing against the jumping pulse point at his neck.

"'s just a concussion..." Sherlock mumbled.

"I know," John replied. "I just wanted to check your pulse." His hand moved away from his shoulder, pressing lightly against his forehead now.

"And my temperature."

"Yes."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "I'll be okay," he mumbled.

The alteration from his usual statement registered slow in his mind; he didn't know he'd said _I'll_ be _fine_ , instead of _I_ am _fine_ until after the fact. It was probably more accurate, but it wasn't as though he wanted John to know that.

"Of course you will," John said. "We both will. Now," John said, stepping back, "you rest. I'd like to check your pupil response, but... I'll have to wake you up every couple of hours, anyway."

"I know," Sherlock murmured.

"Good. I'll get you the ice pack again."

"Thanks," Sherlock mumbled, breathing in the scent of freshly laundered blankets. They smelled like home. Sherlock was asleep in seconds.

* * *

 

"Hey."

"I'm awake," Sherlock interrupted, although he didn't move. He was curled onto his side, comfortably burrowed into the blankets, vaguely aware that the sun was rising outside his curtains but having no desire to get up. This was the first time he'd been content for awhile.

"Oh. When'd you..." John trailed off with a mighty yawn. "... wake up?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I don't know. Twenty minutes."

"How's your head?"

"Throbbing," Sherlock muttered, before raising his voice. "You can go back to bed, if you want."

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It's time to get up."

"You didn't sleep well," Sherlock pointed out, slowly pushing himself over onto his back. His entire body ached from the fall at this point. He hoped that the reason his back ached so was just because he'd fallen wrong, and not because something more drastic was wrong. He'd have to alternate with the ice and see if it helped.

"Yeah, well, who has been?" John muttered.

Sherlock's eyes flicked away from the ceiling and over to John. Dark smudges under his eyes, tousled hair, the way he was favouring one leg versus the other... "Are you okay?" Sherlock asked shortly.

John paused, mid hair ruffle, looking down at him. "... Yeah. I mean, of course neither of us are, but it's just something we have to come to terms with... right?"

It was the first time that John had looked at him that way, since the fire, in that sort of vulnerable, defeated way. Or... maybe it was the first time that Sherlock had noticed, in all of his out-of-there, clouded haze. Either way, it wasn't a way that John generally looked at him. John never explicitly asked him for confirmation on stuff like this. John never let his walls down enough to _have_ to ask. In a way, he was very similar to Sherlock in that regard. Maybe that was why they had ended up butting heads.

Sherlock rolled over onto his other side. "Yes," he said shortly, assenting with a nod. "Although I don't suppose I'm the best advocate for that, so, if you want advice on the matter, you might want to... not ask me," he finished pathetically, hauling his body into an unsteady sitting position. "It's a bit like Afghanistan, isn't it?" he added shortly, pushing his blankets aside.

John was watching him warily, but Sherlock didn't know if it was because he was moving or because of the subject matter. "What do you mean?"

"After you got shot." Sherlock curled his hands into fists on his knees. "... Crippling blow," he added, glancing up again. "Not knowing exactly how to... mesh back into things you used to know."

John stared at him. Sherlock was watching the infinite sadness flicker through his eyes. "Yeah." John cleared his throat, turning away to grab a dressing gown from the closet. "Yeah. Which I guess explains the bloody leg," he muttered, holding the gown out to Sherlock.

"It's hurting you," Sherlock commented, painstakingly putting his arms through the sleeves. He drew the satin close to his body, using the nightstand for support to push himself to his feet.

"I mean, the limp's not back," John muttered, stepping forward to help, "but it definitely hurts. Are you headed to the loo?"

Sherlock shook his head doggedly, reminding himself of how badly his head was hurting in the first place.

"Then, what-"

"Just-" Sherlock interrupted, trying to find his footing. He wasn't as shaky as he had been before he had passed out and slept (interrupted by John waking him up) through the night, but it was a little difficult to come back to himself after everything, and now the concussion. "- give me a second."

"I don't know why you can't sit still-"

Sherlock managed to shift around enough so that he could get his arms around John, pulling him into a tight hug.

John stopped talking.

Uneasiness prickled at the back of Sherlock's neck. Was this right? Hugging? He had told John, he was not the best advocate for things of this nature. Emotions, how to deal with them. But hugs... embracing. That was something, Sherlock was fairly sure, normal people did when something upsetting happened. Sherlock knew that they, he and John, they had never been normal, but... right now, that's all Sherlock really wanted in the first place. _Normal_. When had he started craving some so inane?

Just when Sherlock was sure John was about to push him back - just when he was sure that the hug thing _wasn't_ right for the moment, the only other time John had hugged him was at his wedding so many years ago, and that was different, so Sherlock must have done this wrong, now - John locked his arms around him with enough force to knock the breath out of him.

It was pleasantly refreshing to be squeezed half to death.

He needed the extra pressure to keep himself together, anyhow.

John pulled away slightly, although his fingers were fisted around Sherlock's dressing gown. " _Never_ do that to me again, Sherlock. _Never_. After everything with Moriarty, after Mary..." His voice broke and he cleared his throat again, closing his eyes to recollect himself. "And then you ran into that fire, and then the stairs last night... You're the only one I have left, alright? Don't make me do this alone."

Sherlock searched through the emotions in John's eyes, not surprised to find himself mirroring each one. Sadness, hurt, loss, anguish, terror, confusion, heartbreak, and that terrifyingly acute picture of hopelessness.

He smiled weakly. "John, don't you remember?"

John's eyebrows furrowed. "Remember what?"

"My vow," Sherlock said quietly.

John looked at him, uncomprehending, for a few moments. Sherlock watched the recognition light up his eyes moments later.

"Yeah," John said shortly. "I know."

Sherlock might have failed John's unborn daughter, and he might have failed Mary. But John was still there, still alive and still his best friend. And for John's daughter, and for Mary, and for himself, too, this was one promise that he wasn't going to break.

 


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To return from which they came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: The boys are behaving in really, _really_ reckless behaviour in this chapter. Both John and Sherlock have addictions to danger and, needless to say, you should never follow their actions in this chapter, no matter what.
> 
> Also, slight trigger warning for depression/slight suicidal thoughts.

"What do you think?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "It's good, but I could have cooked it myself."

John shrugged. "Despite the meds, I can tell you're still in pain." He sat down opposite Sherlock with his own plate. "And I don't need you passing out again, much less into a vat of tomato soup."

"I'm not sure I'd exactly call that a vat," Sherlock muttered, rubbing his nose. "And I'm not exactly sure that I would have passed out, either. I'm not _that_ light-headed."

"Fine. You can cook lunch tomorrow," John said, "given that you don't feel worse."

"Mmmkay." Sherlock tore a piece of crust from his sandwich, dunking it into his tomato soup. Sherlock had started making it, but John had stepped in, told him to go sit down, and proceeded to make both tomato soup and grilled cheese. His overbearingness was still annoying, but less annoying than it had been, for reasons that still remained unknown to Sherlock, but he was secretly happy to let John take care of it. His light-headedness _was_ a little... iffy.

He didn't know how, but it was like the tension had just broken. Between passing out, between the row and the make-up and then the hug, anything and everything that Sherlock had been grasping to his chest had just suddenly fallen away. Yes, it still hurt like hell, and yes, if he thought about it too much, he'd be down for the count due to the intense pain shooting across his chest, but he and John were having a conversation, about tomato soup and cooking lunch, no less. It was all very... normal. Very normal, and very good. Sherlock had desperately missed normal, not that he'd be caught dead admitting that to _anybody_.

"John?"

John glanced up, reaching for his tea. "What?"

Sherlock hesitated, idly swirling his grilled cheese through the tomato soup. He knew John wouldn't approve of what he was about to say, but... this was one time where John's opinion wouldn't hold away over him. He was going to go back, either way. Back to Baker Street.

He wouldn't lie to himself when he said he still felt that pull. He wanted to go back and _stay_ , mostly, but he knew he couldn't do that right now. His rational mind accepted that, although his heart was somewhat of a different matter. Even if he couldn't stay, though, something was drawing him back. Back to the rubble, back to the remains of the lives that they had lived for the past ten years. He knew it was a bad idea. He knew it was a very, _very_ bad idea to go back. But he wanted to. And he would.

He rarely ever did anything that was good for him, anyway.

"I want to go back to Baker Street," he said shortly, completing the circuit and taking a harsh gulp of his tea. It was hot; it scalded his throat on the way down. He licked his lips. "I want to check out the flat."

John glanced up. "Sherlock..."

"You realise that, regardless of what you say, I will go, with or without you," Sherlock said flatly, taking a bite.

John stared at him before sighing slightly. "Yeah, I know. And I figured. Of course you would. But it's so soon, Sherlock. It's only been a few days."

"Almost a week," Sherlock said immediately, and took another bite of his grilled cheese, chewing methodically. "But I'm going back." He caught John's gaze. "Whenever." He paused. "Maybe not today."

John nodded. "No. We'll wait a couple days, make sure you're back on your feet." He blew on his soup. "Make sure you're alright. And I'm coming with you."

"I was never 'not alright'," Sherlock muttered, looking back at his soup. "I was just... a little tense."

"Sure," John said. "We were both tense, then."

"Our flat burned down," Sherlock said in a monotone, "I think we're allowed to be a little tense."

It sounded so blunt when it said it like that, he realised. _Our flat burned down._ And no, it wasn't like he hadn't realised that before, but... it was just different now. It was just a little different once he'd started to... accept it. Once he wasn't draped over his bed and bemoaning the loss of the life he'd come to build.

... Well. They'd just have to rebuild it. And the first step - _not_ denial, not the denial - was going back to the beginning.

"Couple days. Then we'll go back," Sherlock continued with a tone of finality, picking up his sandwich again.

* * *

 

Going back was a lot more difficult than it probably should have been.

It hurt _almost_ as bad as getting shot by Mary, but in a different sort of way. But the hole in his chest versus the hole in Baker Street? If anybody asked him, he wouldn't have been able to tell which hurt worse.

"... It could be worse," John said, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Sherlock outside 221 - rather, the remains.

Sherlock swallowed. " _How_?" he asked bluntly.

"... I don't know."

He wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting. Something more than this. Something more than a half burnt down flat in the place where his whole life had previously been.

The third floor was gone, the front façade of the second floor missing to reveal the bones of their sitting room. Speedy's was singed but it seemed to have avoided most of the damage. Sherlock didn't know the state of Mrs Hudson's flat, but regardless of it, she wouldn't be allowed back in due to the unsteady structure of the building.

Sherlock started forward without thought.

"Sherlock!" John scrabbled at Sherlock's arm, but Sherlock pushed him away doggedly. "Sherlock, you can't go in there!"

Sherlock shook him off. "Let me go!" He was straying dangerously close to where he had been the other night, when he had snapped at John and John had snapped right back. He took a deep breath and tried to put the lid back on the pot, so to speak. He wouldn't get anywhere by getting angry. "John."

John's grip loosened slightly, but he didn't release him. " _No_."

This was important. Sherlock didn't know how else to convey that, but this was _so_ important. He just... wanted to be there, one more time. Damn the consequences. He would go back even if it killed him. He wasn't being dramatic, either. He didn't want, he _needed_.

John's hand fell away slowly. "It's dangerous."

"It's always dangerous," Sherlock said bluntly, turning and heading for the front door.

"Sherlock, I swear, if you talk me into this and the floor gives out-"

 _Then we would get a fitting ending to this tragic performance_ , Sherlock thought, but he didn't say it out loud. Instead, he just pushed the front door open and pushed through the rubble to the stairs. They were mostly in tact, although a few of them creaked under his weight in a way that they never had before. The fire had been extinguished before it had taken over the stairwell. Sherlock was grateful; it made this slightly easier.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock swallowed and rounded the last of the stairs. The rest of the flat, unlike the staircase, was not nearly so lucky. It was devastated. That was the simplest word, and also the harshest The wallpaper had been burned away from the walls, the floorboards burned away in places where Sherlock couldn't walk now. There was no front facing to their home now, just an endless expanse of charred wood and the large hole facing the street where their windows would have been.

And suddenly, he was there again, days ago when the fire had taken the flat, when he had run into the building wildly, searching, hoping, _pleading_ for anything, _anything_ to save, anything to save the _flat_ , as the crackling of fire and the popping of glass and wires exploded in his ears and the heat licked up his body, all consuming, too hot, and he could taste the ash in his mouth, he was going to lose everything, everything, _everything_.

Sherlock startled as John touched his arm.

"We shouldn't be here," John said softly. He wasn't looking at Sherlock, just following his gaze with the same detached look in his eyes.

"This is precisely where we should be," Sherlock replied dully.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock shook John's hand off his arm, starting forward. He heard John say his name again, but he didn't listen, just picked his way through the rubble and the weak floorboards. There were places where he could see straight down to Mrs Hudson's flat. It should have made him nervous. It didn't.

"Sherlock, _please_."

"I'm okay," he muttered.

" _It's_ not okay."

Sherlock crouched down to root through a pile of what had probably been belongings, now ash and paper and other various things.

"We shouldn't be here..." But John's voice was weak, and he trailed off as Sherlock rummaged through their prior belongings.

There was little to find in the sitting room, mostly because Sherlock couldn't look around without danger of what little floor was left collapsing. He found some case work that had gone untouched and shoved it unto his pockets - it didn't matter, now, but it was still a remnant of this place nonetheless - and moved on to the other rooms.

His bedroom had remained more or less untouched while he and John had been running through the flames in the prior week, but now Sherlock could see just how much more the fire must have burnt after he had turned and walked away. The posters for the periodic table or the wrestling system on his wall were burned and warped, the glass shattered into a million pieces and gone into the rubble. Sherlock absently ran his fingers against the charred paper, sighing through his nose. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He had to remind himself that it was psychological.

He peeled the smoke-laden, burned duvet away from his bed and collapsed face first into the soot covered sheets. A puff of ash went up, the bed creaked ominously and the rest of the flat seemed to, too. Sherlock's stomach did not pitch.

"Sherlock!"

"It's fine!" he called back, inhaling the remains of the fire, and coughing into his blackened pillow afterwards.

"No, come here."

Sherlock sighed into the sheets and gingerly pushed himself back to his feet. The floorboards creaked again. There was nothing to take from his room; he hadn't kept many personal effects in it to begin with.

"What?" he asked absently, stepping around the corner.

John was grinning. Sherlock wondered where he got his enthusiasm until he saw what he was holding. The skull.

Sherlock blinked. The numbness that had sank into his bones days ago was replaced with a hint of something warm, only to come to an abrupt standstill when his lips turned down on their own accord.

"The skull," he muttered.

John had this significantly joyous look on his face. "It's a little dirty, but still here, miracle of miracles."

"Huh." Sherlock's response came out a little more breathy than he expected. It was a good thing - something to take with him - but they, why did his chest ache and his eyes sting? He inhaled sharply. "That's fantastic," he said shortly, picking his way through the rubble to stop next to John's side. "Funny," he mumbled, and took the skull from John's fingers.

Many a time had he paraded around the flat with the skull - Billy, that was - in his hands. It felt exactly the same now as it had then. The ash and soot didn't matter; Sherlock blinked and he could imagine he was in his flat, whole and untouched by fire, working through a particularly irksome case _("- and what they don't understand, Billy, is that the murderer was in the same room with them the whole time!")_.

"Hey," John said softly, breaking Sherlock out of his reverie. "I meant to ask... the blanket and the pillow?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John.

"Your choice of things to save?" John pressed. "That ridiculous flag pillow and my afghan."

Sherlock lowered the skull, but didn't loosen his grip. "Um..." He cleared his throat. "Sentiment, I suppose."

John tilted his head slightly.

Sherlock turned away. A gust of warm wind blew through the flat, ruffling his hair. He sighed and closed his eyes briefly again. "The pillow was the first thing you touched when you saw the flat that first day. The afghan is just something you brought, something you always think I need when I fall asleep on the couch. So, new flat, old things to rebuild it." He opened his eyes and headed for the door. "We should go."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock didn't want to have this conversation now, and not here, of all places. The pain of emotion was too rugged, like the tattered remains of the flat around him. John was right; it was too soon. He shouldn't come back. It was more painful than it was enlightening. He was stuck somewhere between the past he longed for, the past he had experienced, and the present that he despised and it was difficult to catch his breath in between them. It was like watching himself from afar, watching his life topple down around him and having nothing to do to stop it. It was sickening and the ache in his chest was far too real. He struggled to get ahold of himself.

He stopped in the front entrance, slamming his palm flat against the doorframe to steady himself.

He was fine. He was firmly rooted to the earth, he was _not_ going to be drowned in this sea of emotion.

Except, he was, and he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, and he definitely couldn't pull himself up to full height to stride to the edge of the road to hail a cab because it all _hurt_. He gasped for breath - calm, control, _control_ -

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock winced when John latched onto his shoulder, not having heard him coming up from behind him. He was sweating; the pressure of John's hand against his coat made him all too aware of it. Which didn't make much sense, because he wasn't at all hot, even in the summer weather.

"Hey, look at me. Sherlock."

It suddenly dawned the pain in his chest wasn't just a figment of his imagination. It _was_ real. And he wasn't dramatising when he tried to breathe deeply; he felt smothered even in the air outside the flat now.

"Sherlock. Hey."

Sherlock blinked away spots from his vision. He tried to take a step forward to get away from here, because maybe that was his problem, but he was rooted to the spot. His head swam, lightheaded, in a horrible way.

"Sherlock- okay, okay, okay. Hey, I got you. It's alright."

Sherlock wanted to retort that it wasn't _it bloody well wasn't_ but he couldn't speak. Instead, he grabbed John's shoulder beneath his fingers and held on tightly, struggling to breathe.

 


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the fire didn't kill him, he thinks the emotions still might.

"Well, that was stupid."

"What was?"

Sherlock didn't raise his head from where his chin rested atop his knees. "Reacting so violently." He frowned. "I thought I was having a heart attack."

"People mistake panic attacks for heart attacks sometimes," John replied gently. "Especially if you're not used to the sensation."

Sherlock blew out a breath through his nose. The panic attack had come and gone in the process of what seemed like only minutes, but getting out of the hospital had been more trouble than it had been worth. Sherlock understood why John had called the ambulance, he had been legitimately wondering if he was having a heart attack, but it didn't help his dignity nor his patience after the panic attack had subsided and he wanted nothing more than to go _home_.

"That's why it can be so dangerous," John continued. "I wasn't about to risk it."

"I know," Sherlock replied dully.

Now they were finally back at the duplex, sitting side-by-side on the front stoop. It was single-handedly the _only_ thing that Sherlock liked about the country: he could enjoy nature without the bustle of the city. It was humid out, and Sherlock wished for a cool breeze, but had resigned himself to suffering in exhausted silence.

John had tried to persuade him to go to bed, but sleeping was fraught with nightmares. After the panic attack, Sherlock hadn't been in the mood. He had been exhausted, but unwilling to sleep, so with that, he had taken to the front steps and John had followed after.

"We shouldn't have gone back," Sherlock continued listlessly. "That was stupid, too. Why am I making such stupid decisions?" he muttered.

"You're allowed." John leaned back, propping himself up with his hands. "More now than ever. You don't have to perfect all the time. You're allowed to lose control."

A sudden burst of pain swelled in Sherlock's chest again. He was about to rightfully be alarmed when his vision clouded over, obscured by wetness that collected in his eyes, and he understood: this wasn't another panic attack. He closed his eyes and raised his head, looking away.

Unlike John thought, Sherlock wasn't happy unless he _was_ in control. And, when he did lose ever so precious said control, it usually ended badly: drugs, sex, or jail. Forgive him if he was little hesitant to break up over something, no matter how big of something that might have been.

"I've had panic attacks, too," John said, startling Sherlock back to reality again. "You know that. After Afghanistan. Surprised they haven't come back now, really." He sighed. "It's a mess. Your body and mind just makes it even worse. I get it."

"I know," Sherlock replied.

"It _could_ be worse."

The strangled little laugh that broke free of Sherlock's lips was accompanied by tears that he dashed away immediately. He was not doing that. No. " _How_?" He was repeating the same sentiment from earlier.

John glanced at him - Sherlock could feel his eyes on him, but he didn't look around - and said quietly "We could be dead".

Sherlock didn't reply. He wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously, but, seeing as how either of those would lead to the other, he remained silent. Neither would help.

"Come on," John said shortly, "let's get in. We'll put the telly on and make some tea." He stood up.

Sherlock didn't move. "I think I'll stay here awhile longer."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

John nodded slowly. "... Okay. I'll make a whole pot, though, so try to come in before it gets cold. It'll do you some good."

Sherlock just nodded absently. It was only after John had left that he let himself slump forward and bury his face into his hands, tangling his fingers into his hair. He hated emotion, he hated being unpredictable, he hated being uncontrollable. He tugged on his curls, hoping the prickles of pain would distract him sufficiently from the burning his eyes. _Crying_. The last time he had done that... well, it would have been Mary, but before that, he couldn't remember. And certainly not crying in front of John. Never that. Rational. Calm. Collected.

He took a deep breath, and it out slowly.

He knew it was stupid, but he got to his feet and strode away from the house. He knew John would chew him out for it later, but it didn't matter. He just wanted some distance from the here and now and, with any luck, he'd be able to find it in the tranquility of the land surrounding them.

They had about an acre of land surrounding the duplex. It was a nice place, Sherlock had to admit. It _was_ too quiet and there was a vast amount of _nothing_ surrounding them, but... it was nice. All things considered.

A breeze was the first indicator that the weather was changing over, but he ignored it in favour of rounding through a thicket of trees in the middle of the property. It was a cool breath on the back of his neck, chasing away the taste of soot and ash and the feel of fire singing his flesh. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, to then breathe in the fresh, cool air. He opened his eyes and kept moving.

The gray clouds moved in not ten minutes later. His phone vibrated in his pocket but he ignored it in favour of absolutely nothing else. It was just John. Just John worrying, but Sherlock was more or less fine. He was still working through some things, but he was fine.

_Right_ , his mind supplied sarcastically. _That's the best argument you've had with yourself all day._

Frankly, he wanted to tell that part of his mind to bugger off and leave him be, but he also knew when he was losing an argument, even if said row happened to be with himself. And so, he let the thought float by idly, and ignored the second text message that John sent him.

When the rain started falling, it was almost like a blessing.

He knew it was pointless to hope that it would wash all of this away. It wasn't that simple. It would have been nice to entertain the whim of fancy, but he wasn't going to give in to such childish impulses. Instead, he took comfort in experiencing each individual drop of rain pelting against his exposed skin, to the point where he couldn't feel the individual drops for the downpour, or the water dripping from his hair down his neck. The press of his coat wasn't an oppressive one as it slowly absorbed the rain, but the raindrops stinging his eyes wasn't a pleasant sensation.

_Not raindrops._

_Shut up._

He had no trouble arguing with himself this time. It didn't really matter, though, this time.

He stopped outside what had once probably been a storage shed, although now it was more just a broken down building. The skeleton of something that it used to be. Sherlock twitched himself out of his thoughts, noticing a bee's nest looming in one of splintered corners. He stopped and squinted at it, narrowing his eyes. Life in the midst of destruction. Was he getting too sentimental?

" _There_ you are."

Sherlock jumped, glancing over his shoulder.

John shoved his hands in his pockets, hunkered down in the rain.

Sherlock looked back at the beehive. "Look, John. Bees."

John completely dismissed the statement. "You can't stay out here."

"... Right." Sherlock turned away from the shed, turning his attention back to his flatmate. "Back to the house, then."

John looked up at him intently.

Sherlock resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Instead, he turned away and head back towards the house. "How did you find me, anyway?"

"I've got an app on your phone, connects to mine. In case I need to find you."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, looking down at him. "You've got a track on my phone?"

"I don't use it. Generally. Unless I think maybe something's happened to you," John muttered. His shoulders were slumped, back stiff, eyes averted. He was oozing uncomfortableness. "Or if you won't answer your bloody phone," he added, glancing up at him.

Sherlock sniffed. "I didn't notice it'd gone off."

"You're a horrible liar," John retorted.

Sherlock huffed. "Not generally. Did you make tea?"

"I _did_ , but we've got a ten minute walk back to the house in the pouring rain, and it's going to be cold by the time we get back."

"Huh." Sherlock shook water from his hair. "That's unfortunate. Think it through next time."

John seemed to laugh slightly, but it could have been a scoff, too. Sherlock wasn't certain, but it made him smile slightly nonetheless.

"I call the bathroom upstairs," John said, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"What? No!"

John laughed - it was deifnitely a laugh this time, something strange, but comforting - and picked up the pace.

"No, the upstairs is the one with the bath, I want a bath," Sherlock argued, lengthening his stride to keep ahead of him.

"First one back, then," John challenged.

"Oh, please."

"You'll choke on your own overconfidence one day, mate."

"Well, not today," Sherlock announced, taking off at a jog.

John was quick on his heels and Sherlock found himself chuckling. Just like the old days. The very first days, even.

At least until his foot slipped in the mud and he went down face first.

 


End file.
